The clerk disappeared through a door marked “Private Office,” and reappeared in a few moments and requested Hal to enter. So the midnight marauder found himself standing, cap in hand, in the presence of the great man of the city. Mr. Barriscale was seated at a table in the center of the room, and seemed to be absorbed in the scrutiny of a document he was holding in both hands. When he finally laid the paper down and looked at his visitor it was with no friendly gaze.
“Well,” he inquired brusquely, “what’s your errand?”
If the anticipation of this meeting had filled Hal’s heart with foreboding, the reality was no less fear-compelling. Mr. Barriscale’s presence was imposing, his manner was forbidding. Stern-eyed, square-jawed, formidable in every aspect, he bore the appearance of a man ready to crush any one who opposed his wish or refused to bend to his will. But when Hal replied his voice was firm and his speech was without hesitation.
“I’m the boy,” he said, “who took the marble image away from your fountain last night, and it got broke, and I carried it back there this morning.”
Mr. Barriscale’s frown deepened, his heavy, clipped moustache bristled perceptibly, and a slight flush overspread his face. Evidently the subject was not an agreeable one to him.
“Who told you to come here?” he asked abruptly.
“My father,” replied Hal.
“Who is your father?”
“Captain Lawrence McCormack; and my name is Halpert McCormack.”
“Your father is a respectable citizen. How comes it that he has a night-prowler for a son?”